Bacon & Eggs
by Linda R. Cook
Ten-year-old Anna Mae Henry hated everything about chickens. She hated how their beady little eyes glared at her right before they lunged, flapping their wings, kicking up dust, squawking and pecking at her feet.
She hated gathering eggs from their stinky chicken coops. She’d hold her breath, dreading to reach into their dark nests, groping as though blind, to find a warm moist egg. More times than she could count she’d stick her hand in a pile of greasy chicken poop. Or worse, grab hold of a fat-black chicken snake, sidesbulging from eggs meant for the family breakfast. That would send Anna Mae running and screaming from the hen house.
But Mama would have none of that. She’d say, “Now, Anna Mae Henry, you know those old snakes won’t hurt you none. We just gotta figure out where they’re gittin’ in and plug up that hole. Now, git on back and gather them eggs.”
And Anna Mae always did, even though she hated it.
The part Anna Mae hated most was butchering time. She’d scout out ten or twelve of the fattest chickens and then . . . catch them. Catching chickens was hard work.
Mama rigged up a hook out of an old wire coat hanger. Anna Mae would chase till she could corner one, snare it by a leg with the hook end, managing to grab the whole bird, dropping it in the butcher crate.
Then it was Mama’s turn.
Mama had a knack. She could wring a chicken’s neck with three hard twists of her wrist, sending the bird and the blood flying. And when her wrists got tired, she’d snatch them up by their clawed feet, fling them across the wood chopping block, and whack their heads off with Daddy’s sharpest axe. It wouldn’t be long till she’d have a dozen bloody chicken heads piled in the slop bucket.
After Mama was through, it was Anna Mae’s job to keep an eye on the chickens after their heads came off. Those chickens flopped all over the yard. They’d jerk and twist, and if she wasn’t watching close enough, they’d flop over the hillside and toward the outhouse.
They moved a long way, being dead and all. That always amazed Anna Mae.
When the chickens finally got still, Anna Mae would haul them back to Mama. She would clean out their innards, keeping the heart, liver, and gizzards. Mama always said, “Farmers don’t waste nothin’ and I reckon that’s just how the Good Lord wants it.”
Next would come the “baptizin” as Mama called it. They would dunk the chickens up and down in a tub of scalding water to loosen up their feathers. Those birds got mighty heavy after bobbing them up and down a time or two. After a good dousing, they would pull and pluck feathers till the birds were picked clean. Mama would save all the feathers till she had enough to make feather pillows.
By the time the plucking was over, Anna Mae thought her arms would fall off and her hands and fingers had shriveled up and turned into chicken claws.
Anna Mae shivered and gagged just thinking about the afternoon ahead. Chickens weren’t the only things making her shiver though. Mama told her the Gilroy family was coming for supper tonight.
That meant Billy Gilroy would be coming too.
*****
The afternoon didn’t go quite like Anna Mae thought it would.
Mama said, “It’s just too dang hot to be wringin’ chicken necks and pluckin’ feathers.”
Anna Mae wasn’t the least bit sorry to hear about that change of plans.
“ ‘Sides, we got company comin’ and cookin’ to do.”
Mama grabbed a fat juicy ham from the smokehouse and set Anna Mae to shelling purple-hull peas, shucking corn, and picking tomatoes. Keeping busy with chores helped, but nothing stopped Anna Mae from daydreaming about Billy’s visit.
Lickety-split Mama had the purple-hulls boiling and the rich sweet smell of ham roasting in the oven. Mama’s long slender fingers punched and kneaded dough for yeast rolls. She pinched off perfect moon shapes, draped, and set them to rise.
Anna Mae paced with excitement as Daddy and the Gilroy family started across the pasture. Her heart plopped to her toes when she spotted Billy’s wheat colored hair, head bobbing up and down as he crossed the cornfield; his long, lanky stride-keeping step with his Pa’s. Billy had turned thirteen that summer and had shot up like a beanpole.
Anna Mae had made up her mind at eight years old she was gonna marry Billy one day. He just didn’t know it yet.
Supper was a noisy affair.
Daddy and Mr. Gilroy talked non-stop about crops, money, and weather. Mama and Miz. Gilroy yakked about quilts, canning, and babies. Billy’s two-year-old twin brothers jabbered and threw purple hull peas back and forth. Billy and Anna Mae just listened.
After supper, Mama shooed Anna Mae, Billy, and the twins to the porch. “Anna Mae, you and Billy keep watch over the babies and finish up the peach ice cream. Ya’ll take turns crankin’ the ice cream paddles.”
Billy whispered, “Ya haven’t told nobody, have ya?”
Anna Mae shook her head. “No! I keep my word, Billy.”
“Well, good, ‘cause tonight me’n Sampson are goin’. They’re racin’ at Baker’s farm at midnight. Me and ol’ Sampson been practicin’ and I know he’ll take them other horses. He’s fast as lightning. First prize is $25 and I aim to git it.”
“Your Pa’ll skin you if he finds out.”
“He won’t find out lessin’ you squeal.”
“I told ya I wouldn’t tell! ‘Sides, if you’re goin’, I’m goin'.”
"Nah, tain’t no place for a girl. I cain’t let cha.”
“Hmph, ya cain’t stop me. I’m goin’. So git used to it.”
“Aw, heck, Anna Mae, I shouldna’ told ya.” Billy sighed, “Ya sure cain’t go dressed like a girl. Wear some overalls or somethin’, and yer Pa’s hat then. I’ll be at the end of the pasture a few minutes afore midnight. I’m not waitin’ on ya.”
“I’ll be there,” she whispered.
“Hey ever bodeee! Ice cream’s ready. Come’n git it!” yelled Billy.
After everyone had their fill of ice cream, Mama, Daddy, and the Gilroys said their goodnights. Daddy shut the lights and herded Mama and Anna Mae to bed.
Night sounds settled on the Henry household and a bright, clear, coon hunter’s moon shone across the fields. Anna Mae dressed, slipped out her window, and ran for the pasture.
Billy was waiting.
The Baker farm was lit up like a revival meeting. Billy led Sampson to find their place in the line-up. They were just in time.
Anna Mae’s knees trembled and buckled as she hugged the fence rail.
Six horses stood side-by-side, tossing their heads, pawing the ground, eager to run. Sampson shifted and pranced as Billy stroked and soothed, trying to settle him down. Billy was a fine rider. That big black horse was his pride and joy, and Anna Mae prayed nothing would go wrong.
POP! The gun exploded. The horses charged across the starting line, churning up dirt clods. Six horses, muscled flanks rippling, lathered with sweat, grunted and heaved, as their determined riders urged them forward.
The muggy night air crackled with excitement. Billy was hanging on in second place, when he leaned low across Sampson’s neck. The big black shot ahead like a cannon ball, thundering across the finish line with inches to spare, claiming the winner’s spot.
Anna Mae screeched and bounced up and down. “He won, he won!”
She could see Billy’s wide smile all the way across the field.
Then she spotted Mr. Gilroy.
Grinning, Billy trotted Sampson to the winner’s circle and then spied his Pa. His face whitened and the grin faded as his Pa walked over.
“Mighty fine race, son. Collect your purse and let’s git on home. We’ll talk then.”
Billy gulped and whispered, “Yes, sir.”
Anna Mae ran to Billy. Mr. Gilroy shook his head at the sight of her and sighed, “Anna Mae, I mighta known you’d be in on this. Let’s git you home.”
Mama and Daddy were waiting on the porch.
*****
“And then what happened, Nana Anna?” asked little Maeda, as she slipped her tiny hand into Anna Mae’s. She squirmed and snuggled closer to her grandmother’s side.
“What did PawPaw and MawMaw do to you? Did you get a whoopin’? Did you and Papa Billy get in bad, bad trouble?”
“Well now, Maeda, I’ll tell ya’, my Mama and Daddy, they tweren’t very happy ‘bout me sneakin’ off in the middle of the night to watch Billy ride that big ol’ black horse.”
“An’ Papa Billy’s horse’s name was Sampson, right Nana?” Maeda asked.
“That’s right, shore ‘nuff.” Anna Mae patted Maeda’s soft hand.
"Now, let me see, where was I? Oh mercy …. now when I saw the look on my Mama and Daddy’s faces, standin’ there on the porch, whooee, I was purty scared. I knew I shouldna’ snuck out. But I thought Billy was right special. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to foller him to that race. ‘Sides, I figured he might be aneedin’ my help.
“Anyway, my Mama and Daddy didn’t git on me too much that night. They sent me on to bed and told me we’d have some serious talkin’ to do in the morning. They were purty smart. See, they let me go to sleep thinkin’ about what I’d done, and that was almost worse than getting a whoopin.’ I kept frettin’ all night about what was gonna happen.
Anna Mae stroked Maeda’s soft blonde curls. “The next day I found out some important thangs.”
“What was ‘portent, Nana?”
“Ya know how I told you I hated chickens and everything about ‘em?”
“Uh huh, I remember,” Maeda nodded and smiled.
“Well now, I found out right quick there was somethin’ a whole lot worse.”
“What, what?” whispered Maeda.
“PIGS! Pigpens and pig poop and everything about ‘em!”
“Pig pens and pig poop,” Maeda giggled, “Oh, they sure do smell bad.”
“Whooee, you’re right about that. Anyhow, Mama and Daddy give me a strong talkin’ to and then I got a new chore. Mama and Daddy put me to sloppin’ hogs, cleanin’ out pigpens, and totin’ buckets of pig poop. Oh my, I didn’t care for that much at ‘tall. I was right happy to get back to taking care of my chickens.
“And ya know what else, Maeda?”
“No, Nana, what else?”
“I never did sneak out the window again.”
“Ooh, tell me more, Nana,” begged Maeda, “what happened to Papa Billy? Did he get a whoopin’?”
“Well now,” Anna Mae chuckled, “I reckon that’s a story for Papa Billy to tell.
“Hows about you and me go gather some eggs? You can help me cook up some bacon and eggs for breakfast. Then you can ask Papa Billy to tell you all about that night. He might even tell ya the story of how the “A & B Horse Farm” got started.”
Linda Cook writes from her home in the Northwest corner of California where she shares home with her husband of 38 years. She is the mother of two adult sons. The three men in her life are a constant source of joy and laughter and provide her with endless writing material.
In the past year, Linda has begun to seriously pursue her love of writing. In 2005, she had a nonfiction article published through Alive, A Magazine for Vibrant Christians. She also received Honorable Mention for a women's issues contest through Long Story Short and recently placed third for a personal memoir contest through Byline Magazine.
Linda wrote this story while studying under Lea Schizas in her class, Writing Fiction Express at the Long Story Short School of Writing. Here's what she said about the class: " I enjoyed my class with Lea so much so that I signed up for her other one as well as an essay class with J. Brown. Can't wait. It's given me a much needed boost. I've been spreading the word about the classes at LSS - they are affordable and full of perks." Linda also has a poem published in this issue (which she created in her You, Me and Poetry class at LSS)
- see Seeking Self on the Poetry page. It was chosen a the best poem of the class.
